


Rhythm of the River

by crushermyheart08



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e07 Scientific Method, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Kathryn Janeway Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushermyheart08/pseuds/crushermyheart08
Summary: 'Sleep remains unattainable. Time drags itself forward. And even the stars flitting past the viewscreen seem dimmer than usual.' Set after Scientific Method.
Relationships: Chakotay & Kathryn Janeway, Kathryn Janeway & Tuvok (Star Trek)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 46





	1. Between One Wave and the Next

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Trek Voyager or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hey everyone. We're seven months into the crazy world that is Lockdown. Hope you're all safe and well. I couldn't resist writing this fic after watching the episode 'Scientific Method' - I recommend watching the episode before reading as certain references may make more sense. Note: I couldn't find a name for the Ensign who died on the Bridge so I took the liberty of naming her Warren. I got slightly carried away so this will be a multi-chaptered story. Please read and review if you have the time. Constructive criticism is welcome. As always, enjoy :) x

"Tuvok to Janeway."

She sighs inaudibly, fingers coming to pinch the bridge of her nose in a feeble attempt to relieve the headache that has plagued her mind for the last ninety-six hours and counting.

Untucking her legs from beneath her, the Captain pushes an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. There's a shakiness to her movements that irritates the hell out of her, a trembling in her right hand that will not relent. Sleep remains unattainable. Time drags itself forward. And even the stars flitting past the viewport seem dimmer than usual.

In the quiet of her Ready Room the Captain has found little comfort, tucked away from prying eyes, the door locked to all but those who would dare enter.

"Yes?" Janeway replies at length.

He doesn't hesitate to answer.

"May I see you for a moment?"

Intuition tells her he's already standing on the other side of her Ready Room doors, his dark Vulcan eyes boring holes into the grey metal as if sheer willpower alone could open them. She sighs again, readies herself for the reprimand she knows will inevitably come, and rises stiffly to her feet. No doubt he will have much to say regarding her latest display of unorthodox behaviour.

"Enter."

He passes over the threshold without preamble, each step calculated and precise. She bristles as he moves toward her, emanating an aggravating calmness.

"Captain." He offers a PADD, regards her with an expressionless gaze. "The damage report as you requested."

She allows herself a small smile.

"As punctual as ever." She motions toward the desk, having no immediate intention of reading about the state of the ship. The urge to sit back down presses like a physical weight on her shoulders, demanding a response, draining the remainder of her energy. "Thank you, Tuvok."

It is a subtle dismissal.

He does not take it.

"The Doctor reports he has successfully removed at least seventy percent of the alien experiments from the crew thus far," he says, and she wonders if he knows she has already been informed of the fact. "I expect the ship will need significant recovery time."

A pull on her right temple. She folds her arms over her chest, forces herself into a natural stance observing the passing stars. His Vulcan unease is masterfully concealed, invisible to the untrained eye, but she knows how to read between the lines and the sideways remark on her own well-being does not escape her notice.

"You have not yet reported to Sickbay."

It's a question, she realises, and she turns to give him a wry smile.

"I'll live."

He does not seem convinced, and a well of anger rises from the pit of her stomach, tightening around her lungs. She feels incensed, like a ship without anchor, tossed carelessly between one wave and the next. His head cocks to one side.

"May I make a suggestion, Captain?"

"No."

The word leaps from her mouth before she can stop it, and she silently berates herself for her lack of control. Tuvok, however, remains unmoved.

"You require sleep."

She laughs, and the sound is almost frightening, ragged with disdain.

"Sleep," Janeway echoes, pressing a hand to her head, rubbing over the insistent throbbing she has come to reluctantly embrace. "I have gone _far_ past the point of sleep, Tuvok."

She catches the lift of his brow, the question he imperceptibly pushes in her direction.

"I..." Her frustration withers, and a dark appal emerges to take its place. "I can't sleep until I know that every single one of those... those mutilations have gone."

The knot in her throat dislodges, and she breathes through the revulsion that races through her veins. He looks her directly in the eye. She holds his gaze, certain of at least one of her rambling thoughts.

"I want them _off my ship_."

Slowly, deliberately, Tuvok walks toward her, lips parted as if he were going to speak some sense, some unbidden logic, into a senseless situation. And then he turns to the replicator, types in a short command. Her eyes close, arms wrapping further around her waist.

"A little rest," he says over his shoulder, "would not go amiss."

She catches a breath, chews the inside of her cheek. The floor rolls beneath her boots and she is keenly aware of the dark specks dancing haphazardly over the carpet.

The Doctor's comprehensive observation of her condition had left little to the imagination. Visions of needles embedded in the epidermal layers of her skin continue to distort her waking thoughts, and in her maddened state she can easily envision the alien devices driving into her subcranial tissues. She runs a hand over her forehead, deeply unsettled by the knowledge that, in some dimension out of phase with their own, there are five obscenities nestled within her brain.

"How are you faring?"

The couch rises up to meet her as she sinks back into the void, to the place where she is neither Captain nor Kathryn, where her thoughts run wild with potent abandon.

"Fine," she hears herself reply automatically.

The couch dips as he lowers himself to sit beside her, maintaining a reasonable distance. Something warm and soothing emanates from the cup he sets down on the table, and he pushes it encouragingly across the white surface towards her. But she hasn't the stomach for it.

"Permission to speak freely, Captain?"

Janeway throws him a half-hearted glare.

"You seem distracted," the Vulcan observes. "More than usual, that is," he adds in a dry, almost reprimanding tone.

She inhales morosely, face half-hidden behind one hand as she traces the aching bone beneath her left brow. One look at his schooled features would tell her all she needs to know. How irresponsible and out of control her actions had truly been. How disappointed he must be in her.

"I nearly destroyed the ship, Tuvok," she confesses quietly.

"You took a gamble," the Vulcan counters matter-of-factly, "and won. I will admit I did not believe such an unconventional approach would resolve the situation, but it was, nevertheless, a surprisingly successful course of action."

"Considering the odds? Yes, it was," Janeway replies. "But I'm not so certain I would have made that same choice had my rationality been more agreeably inclined."

"You did what you believed to be right at the time," Tuvok says. "No one but you could have made that decision."

A palpable tension continues to gather, demanding to be released. She blinks at him seriously, toying with a dangerous question.

"What would you have done had you been in my position?"

"I cannot answer that."

" _Can't_ , Tuvok?" Janeway frowns. "Or _won't_?"

He exhales, considering the repercussions of his response.

"Mistakes are often made when emotion is allowed to take precedence over logic." He takes a sip of his tea. "I do not believe you made a mistake."

She shakes her head, fingers digging into the spot between her brows. The rigid body of Ensign Warren flickers in her mind, a haunting image of another life lost. Another life she has failed to protect.

"I should have done more."

Irritability crawls over her skin, and as the Vulcan watches her, in his usual careful manner, she considers forcing him to leave her be. But she's tired of fighting, tired of battling with her own flammable aggression.

What she wouldn't give for a little of his Vulcan control.

"You said yourself that, had the experiments been allowed to continue, a small majority of the crew may have been subjected to fatal deformities," Tuvok continues passively. "The alternative," he reminds her, "was the crew's termination, regardless of the outcome."

A dull weight presses into her chest and her jaw tightens with unbridled anger at the memory. A darkened cell. The audacity of those words. The sudden, uncontrollable wrath that had disfigured her clarity of mind, swiftly followed by the frightening realisation that she was losing it. Piece by piece.

Janeway exhales heavily. She hadn't even found out where the Srivani had come from. How long they'd been on her ship.

"You are only human, Captain," Tuvok affirms. "I believe, given the circumstances, you have conducted yourself with extraordinary resilience and conviction. It is a credit to you that even under immense pressure and external influence the crew trusts in your judgement."

She shouldn't crave his affirmation, the reassurance he gives so freely, but she wants it, needs it, because it means, in spite of what she herself may think, that she is still the Captain. And she is still in control.

"I," he continues after a moment, "trust your judgement."

Her breath hitches, eyes sealed shut against the rising pain.

"Thank you, Tuvok."

She almost hears him smile.

"You are welcome, Captain."

He takes his cup, sips from it quietly.

"That being said, you surprised me today. As Tactical Officer it is my duty to anticipate every course of action you might choose to take. I would prefer it, in future, if-"

She holds up a hand to stop him, eyes crinkled with understanding.

"Don't worry, Tuvok. I don't intend on being quite so _reckless_ in future." Her head falls into her hands, the pressure inside her mind building and spreading into every cavity, as if trying to prise open her skull. "Was there anything else?"

The teacup slides back onto the table.

"Would you like me to get you anything?"

"No."

"Given that you have refused to see the Doctor, may I suggest a sedative?"

"No." She springs to her feet, more than a little alarmed at the thought, and grasps for the handrail. Something to hold onto. Something tangible. "No, you absolutely may not."

Her temper is already dangerously close to the mark. Succumbing to it is an inevitability she hasn't the strength to avoid.

"Captain-"

"I am not going anywhere until every single member of my crew has been examined by the Doctor and cleared for duty."

"You require medical attention," Tuvok states, seemingly intent on steering her out of the room and she bats him away angrily, hands curling into fists at her sides.

"Don't handle me, Tuvok!"

There's an insolent tone to her voice she doesn't recognise, and the sound of it dissipates the irascibility creeping like a mist over her senses. A mist that has blinded her to reason. To rational thought. To logic.

A fragmented laugh escapes her throat; she clamps a hand over her mouth.

"Captain," Tuvok reiterates, his displeasure and disapproval evident in his choice of words. "I do not see how prolonging your suffering will benefit the-"

She falters slightly, and he is at her side in an instant, reaching to steady her. Nausea hits just beneath her ribs, black dots swarming like an angry hive somewhere above her desk.

"I-" She presses the back of her hand to her forehead. Another hour. Maybe two. She can survive that long. "I am not going to Sickbay," she mutters with a stubborn determination.

Tuvok raises a brow.

"That would be unwise, Captain."

"I know," she sighs, swaying uncertainly as her chin falls to her chest, eyes closed against an invisible onslaught. "I know, Tuvok, but I need to make sure that this is over. I need to know that they're safe."

The Vulcan nods slowly, coming to his own tacit conclusion.

"I will sit with you," he offers. "Until the Doctor calls you to Sickbay."

"Really, there's no need for-"

"You are over-tired, distressed and in pain," Tuvok states, interrupting her half-hearted outburst. "Furthermore, you are my Captain and you are my friend. It would be remiss of me not to offer you aid at this time."

She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't protest as he steps a little closer.

"Please, Tuvok," she murmurs quietly. "Don't make yourself uncomfortable on my account."

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, gentle, an anchor to reality. She shrinks back, dread and anger begging her to step away, to resist his calm. And then her forehead meets the soft fabric of his uniform, and she breathes him in, a mix of subtle lemongrass and woody sage. She can hear his strong heartbeat, palpable, a steady drum against the pain piercing deep into her consciousness.

Cautiously, if not awkwardly, his arm reaches across the small of her back, cocooning her, shielding her. And she finds, despite everything, she is content to stay there in his half embrace, listening to the rhythm of his soul.


	2. Light and Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Trek Voyager or any of its characters. Except a species called the Morrali because I made them up.
> 
> A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has read and left reviews so far. It means an awful lot! Here is Chapter 2. Please read and review if you have the time. As always, enjoy :) x

Sickbay is quiet. Minutes seem to slip into hours as the Doctor works around her, his final patient, rattling on about phase shifts and recalibrations and _how fascinating a day this was turning out to be._ The monotonous beeping of the medical instruments is an unwelcome distraction from the tormenting pulse hammering over her temples. Her dopamine levels, she knows, are still monstrously high, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to tame her temper.

"Try to relax, Captain."

She can see the needles on the verge of her peripheral vision, jutting out obscenely like some hideous thing from one of Lieutenant Paris' favourite pop culture movies. Her fingers curl under the edge of the biobed, teeth gritted.

"Doctor, if you don't pull these damned needles out right now I'll do it myself."

The hologram, however, simply stares at her, unphased by the threat.

"I wouldn't recommend that," he replies, several lines creasing across his forehead in barely obscured impatience. He waves his tricorder over her, studies the results. "These needles have been very carefully positioned. One micrometre out of place and they could cause severe neurological damage." He types in a series of calculations. "And we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Janeway glares at him. How he can be so heinously detached from the circumstances, faced with removing devices that violate everything he stands for, to do no harm, is beyond her.

"Spare me the details, Doctor. I want them out."

He remains unshaken by her tone.

"May I remind you, Captain, that I am working as fast as I can."

In the far corner of her eye she can see Tom watching her uncertainly, hovering nearby in case he's required to assist. There's an odd expression on his face she can't quite make out, almost as if he's afraid of what she will say, or worse do, next. Or perhaps, the Captain realises, his ears are still burning from the sharp scolding she'd given him and Voyager's Chief Engineer regarding their recent inappropriate behaviour.

The Lieutenant's gaze fixes on her combadge and then darts away, his attention suddenly drawn to the medical tray sitting on the edge of the adjacent biobed. She shifts anxiously, pulls at the sleeves of her uniform.

"Captain, please," the Doctor huffs. "Try to remain still."

Tuvok raises a reproving brow, but he does not move from his post guarding the door. The crew has seen enough of her ire for one day. She'll do anything to spare them from witnessing this.

"This may sting a little."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"The scientific term for brain freeze," the Doctor smiles appeasingly, "is sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia."

"That's not what I meant," Janeway snaps, muscles recoiling as the EMH applies some sort of salve to her forehead.

He studies her carefully, lips pressed into a tight thin line, but his hands are gentle, calm, a far cry from his impetuous, and at times cynical, bedside manner.

"I know exactly what you meant, Captain," the Doctor answers coolly. "Now please hold still."

"If it makes you feel any better, Captain, I didn't know that either," Tom offers helpfully, keeping a sensible distance. "Got any other fun facts to share with us, Doc?"

A groan escapes her lips as the Doctor turns the end of the first needle, preparing it like a hot poker over a simmering fire. The skin around it tugs, tightens, and her eyes squeeze shut.

"Well," the EMH sighs, "I don't know about _fun_ , but I did recently read a rather tantalising paper on how to treat Lungworm. There was a particularly riveting passage pertaining to-"

"Doctor, please" Janeway warns, her patience wearing threadbare. "Just get it over with."

He blinks.

"Very well."

He starts to pull, and the world falls away. Some unearthly sound escapes her lips. A heaviness weighs down on her chest, propelling her backwards, and a pair of arms catch her shoulders as she nearly tumbles off the biobed.

"Woah. Easy. Easy, Captain," Tom whispers, helping her sit upright. He gives her arm a reassuring squeeze. "You alright?"

She struggles to swallow the lump forming in her throat.

"I've been better."

A cool cloth presses to her forehead. The world tilts again violently and her vision blurs beyond recognition.

"Breathe, Captain."

Her lungs spring back into action at the command, her stomach threatening to release its contents. A furious determination forms, and one single thought plays over and over in her mind. Throwing up is not an option. Showing pain in front of her crew is weakness enough. She doesn't need the added mortification of losing control over her body as well as her mind.

A foggy haze descends, and Sickbay gradually morphs into a mosaic of light and shadow. To one side the Doctor inspects the retrieved needle, his eyes glazed over with fascination; on the other Tom forces a tight smile.

"One down. Four to go."

Her eyes roll into the back of her head.

"Perhaps you'd better lie down, Captain."

She's far past the point of arguing.

The Lieutenant is gentler than she expects, lifting her knees for her and holding her hand - a breach of protocol she would never have allowed had she been in a better frame of mind. Protocol. Privacy. They're one in the same thing nowadays. And yet as his thumb slides reassuringly over her knuckles she can't help but relish the brief contact.

As soon as her head meets the pillow all other thought abandons her, and the Doctor continues the painstaking process of extracting the alien needles.

"A most intriguing procedure," the EMH is saying, mostly to himself. "These are quite a feat of engineering. Incredibly tricky to insert but, thankfully for you, Captain, the retrieval is fairly straightforward. Calculate the exact trajectory of the exit point, maintain a steady hand and voila. It'll certainly make for an interesting medical report."

The skin beneath her eyes tighten; she can feel his holographic breath feathering over her hairline.

"Don't worry, Captain." Tom squeezes her hand. "We're nearly finished."

A hypospray at her neck.

"Well, Captain," the EMH drops the last needle onto the awaiting tray. "I am pleased to report that as of 2200 hours all remnants of the alien devices have been successfully removed from the ship's crew."

"Thank you, Doctor." Janeway swallows, attempts to clear her throat. "I think I'd like to sit up now."

Gravity shifts. Arms pull at tired bones, propping her upright, and she lets her legs dangle over the side of the biobed. A dermal regenerator hums quietly as the Doctor runs it over the exit wounds, and a soothing warmth begins to spread over her forehead.

"Now if you'll just hold still a moment longer," he requests. "I need to check your cerebral arteries are in tact, and give you an extra dose of hydrocortilene."

She hums a disinterested reply.

The doors to Sickbay swish open quietly. Voices murmur in the far corners of the room, and she is far too curious to let them pass unnoticed.

"Commander."

She notes his appearance: his smooth skin, the crinkle of his smile, the easiness of his step. Gone are the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the tremor of his hand. He stands tall and steadfast and healthy. Days have passed since they last spoke, and yet she has felt his absence as if it had been a lifetime.

"Captain."

He's staring at her, eyes drawn to the region above her brows with a look she's come to recognise all too well. A seething anger. A deep unease. But as the moments pass, as the Doctor heals her skin and she feels her muscles knitting back together, his demeanour unwinds a little, and he suddenly remembers what he came to say.

"We've received a distress call from a species called the Morrali. They seem friendly enough. They're in need of medical assistance and as far as we can tell we're the only ship in the area for three light-years." Chakotay relaxes his stance. "It's a detour from our planned route but it's not too far out of our way."

"Assure them we'll be there as soon as possible," Janeway replies, slipping beneath her professional mask. "Mr Paris, if you'd be good enough to help the Doctor prepare?"

The Lieutenant grins obligingly.

"No problem, Captain."

She shuffles toward the edge of the biobed, the need to escape the confines of Sickbay pulling her with an unmistakable force.

"Well, if that's all-"

"Actually, Captain," the Doctor immediately intercepts her thoughts and physically places himself between his commanding officer and the route to the door, all too aware of her intentions. "I'd prefer it if you stayed in for observation. A few hours more and then I'll be happy to release you to your quarters."

The thought horrifies her.

"No, thank you, Doctor." Janeway rubs a hand over her temples, feels the newly restored skin. "All I need right now is a good cup of coffee and a few hours sleep."

"A few hours?" the Doctor exclaims. "Captain, you need to catch up on at least 30 hours of REM sleep. And as for coffee, that's out of the question. Caffeinated substances are the last thing your body needs right now."

She's already eased herself off the biobed, keeping one hand on the surface to steady herself. The Doctor folds his arms over his chest, brokering no argument.

"As your Chief Medical Officer I highly recommend that you go straight to bed and spend the next three days off duty."

Janeway sighs.

"I'm really feeling quite better."

"On the contrary, Captain," the Doctor countermands, passing the scanner over her. "Your dopamine levels are still well above average and you have been awake for just over 100 hours. If the latter issue is not rectified soon it could have serious detrimental repercussions for your long-term health."

She doesn't want to discuss this. Not here. Not now. Not in front of the others.

"One," Janeway argues in the hope of some negotiation. "One day."

"I'm sorry, Captain-"

"Fine. Two." She pats his arm, mustering a grim smile. "And I'll even come into Sickbay for you to clear me for duty."

"How very generous of you," the Doctor replies, and she can't quite tell if he's being sarcastic or sincere. Or maybe a little of both. "Very well. Two days it is. I'll see you in 48 hours, Captain."

She nods her thanks, and makes a beeline for the exit. Her legs feel like lead, quivering with a rush of adrenaline and fatigue, and for a brief, horrifying moment she fears she will drop to the floor before she can escape the room. Mercifully, the doors swish shut behind her, and she prays no one has the good sense to follow her.


	3. Intricate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Trek Voyager or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hey all, here's the next chapter! Thank you to everyone who has read and left a review! I love seeing your comments and thoughts, and it really means an awful lot! Taking some artistic liberty here with why Janeway decided to cut her hair between Scientific Method and Year of Hell. Please read and review if you have the time. As always, enjoy :) x

The gangways are empty, quiet save for the gentle, ever-present humming of the ship's engines. The pain of the alien devices had dulled even that luxury, and their presence now is a greater comfort than anything else could be. With all its scrapes and bruises Voyager is as familiar as her own heartbeat and over the last three, nearing four, years she has made it her mission to memorise every square inch of the ship they have come to call home.

Without thought the Captain languidly lets her hand trail along the corridor wall, her fingertips rising and falling over the panels beneath them. Muffled footsteps quicken in pace some distance behind her, and a voice calls out in greeting.

"Care for some company?"

She summons a teasing smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Making sure I stay out of trouble, Commander?"

"Hardly," Chakotay replies, observing her with a keenly trained eye. He hesitates, then bites the bullet. "It's just that you seemed a little unsteady on your feet back there."

She throws him a warning glance, torn between accepting the truth of his words and disregarding his concern. He offers her his arm, raises a brow in invitation. She blanches.

"Don't worry, Captain." Chakotay risks a grin. "I won't tell. Most of the crew are in their quarters recovering. No one is around to see."

She isn't convinced, but every step is becoming as wayward as the last and she can't afford to be seen collapsing in a heap in the middle of the gangway. Or walking arm in arm with her first officer in the direction of her quarters for that matter. But she can't seem to find the energy to muster an argument, and he soon tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"How's the headache?"

"Better than it was."

She doesn't mean to lean against him; he doesn't seem to mind.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like a new man," the Commander replies. "It's funny, really. I've always said I'd be happy to die peacefully in my bed as an old man, but..." His brow furrows, and there's a seriousness to his tone that wasn't there before. "It turns out being elderly isn't quite all it's made out to be."

"Oh?" Janeway throws him a curious expression, intrigued by his sudden change of heart. "How so?"

"Well, the hair, for starters."

She smirks.

"I'll admit you weren't quite so becoming without it."

He laughs, and the sound fills the empty corridor with a renewed vigour.

"You know, after an hour or two I could barely see a thing," Chakotay chuckles. "It's not quite the same talking to someone when you can't see their face. Not that it was much of a loss when it came to the Doctor."

She nudges him, a half-hearted reproach.

"But when I thought of all the people I might not ever see again, my friends, the people I enjoy spending time with, smiling with them, noting their subtle expressions..." He trails off, his thoughts carrying themselves elsewhere, far away and out of sight. "I realised how much I'd be missing."

He glances down at her, lips pursing as he considers his words carefully, turning them over and inspecting them one by one like the pieces of an intricate puzzle.

"Captain?"

"Hmm?"

"You will get some sleep, won't you?"

The question catches her off guard and she looks up at her first officer in bewilderment, caught between the crags of curiosity and defiance. He smiles a crooked smile.

"You know you can take off as much time as you need."

"That won't be necessary, Commander," Janeway replies, tactfully avoiding the beginnings of a conversation they seem to have all too often these days, "but thank you."

They've come to a standstill, neither willing to make the first move, and it takes her a while to realise they're standing outside her quarters. And she's still holding onto his arm. Feeling somewhat flustered, she mutters something indefinite under her breath, eyes flitting from one end of the gangway to the other. Anxiety still flows like an unwelcome intruder through her veins, and the Commander's intense gaze is doing nothing to calm her fraying nerves.

"Well." She retrieves her hand, swallows. "Thank you for walking me home."

"Let me know if you need anything," Chakotay nods, but his boots remain rooted to the carpet beneath their feet.

Her voice softens.

"Chakotay, what is it?"

"When I mentioned earlier about you taking more time off... What I meant to say was that you need to take some time for yourself. Although you might deny it, beneath the Captain's uniform you're just as human as the rest of us."

A bitter anger begins to simmer and her gaze hardens. But he doesn't back down, and the directness with which he speaks surprises her, perhaps as much as he seems to surprise himself.

"I've known you for the better part of three years now, Kathryn." He lets her name slip and reaches absently for her sleeve, then pulls away, thinking better of it. "I know when you're not taking care of yourself."

"I'm more than content to leave the ship in your capable hands, Commander," Janeway replies, a little more sharply than she had intended, "but I won't take any more time off than is necessary."

"Understood."

If her dismissal offends him Chakotay doesn't show it. It's how they do things now - using each other's professional titles to end a conversation that has become unsettling personal. Over the years several boundaries have blurred and it's often difficult to ascertain where their friendship ends and their command roles begin. This, however, she knows: there are some boundaries that can never, and will never, be crossed.

His shoulders droop, and his face crinkles into that odd smile again.

"Pleasant dreams, Captain."

...

She glances at the chronometer.

0240.

Her arm tingles beneath the pillow, restless, itching for something to do. A PADD lies discarded on the floor, a half-empty cup of milk and honey left long abandoned on the nightstand. In the consuming darkness of her quarters the Captain often slides into unconscious thought with relative ease, allowing herself to indulge in dreams of far-flung places devoid of dangers that here, in the Delta Quadrant, seem to linger at every turn. But not tonight. Not when her mind is screaming for peace. When she needs it most.

Throwing back the covers Janeway lets out a frustrated sigh. The sheets are scratchy, her muscles taught with a tension she cannot shake. Heat rises in successive waves, but she hasn't the energy to order the computer to change the environmental controls - again. Her hand hovers over her combadge, toying with the idea of calling Sickbay and risking the Doctor's censure, or even worse, his pity. But she doesn't want a lecture on her physical wellbeing. Or another nightcap recipe. And she most certainly doesn't want to be sedated.

And so the combadge remains undisturbed, and the Captain flops agitatedly back into the pillows.

The darkness above warps and writhes, flickers of starlight colliding with her own unreliable vision. A hand tangles in her hair, drawing out the matted strands. She tosses, turns, twists into positions that hold no comfort.

"Enough, Kathryn!"

Swinging her legs over the side, Janeway staggers toward the bathroom, gravity pulling at her limbs. A hardened pulse begins anew in her temple, and she leans heavily over the basin. The water is cool, refreshing, but it does nothing to relieve the aching of her jaw, nor does it erase the darkened circles that have found a seemingly permanent residence beneath her tired eyes.

Hell, she looks tired. Pale. Haggard. A woman driven to the brink of her own sanity. A captain who had been willing to blow up her own ship, her own crew, on a dangerous whim. A single instinct.

Muttering meaningless nothings under her breath, Janeway shakes her head and attempts to twist her rebellious strands back into place. One falls loose, and then another, intent on mounting a mutiny of their own.

And then an idea strikes, new and startling.

The draw slides open, and she pulls out her mother's scissors. Stern eyes reflect back at her in the mirror, questioning, accusing, declaring an unavoidable challenge. A flicker of doubt passes like a shadow over her features as she wraps a wilful curl around one finger. She can't. She won't. And yet the more she thinks about it the firmer her decision becomes.

Weighing the cold metal in her palm, Kathryn calmly slides her fingers into the rings, and begins to cut.


	4. A Glass of Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Trek Voyager or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Here's the penultimate chapter! We've finally come to the line that influenced this story and kick-started me into writing it: "I will join you for a glass of wine." Tuvok will never cease to amaze me with his kindness. I hope you're enjoying this fic so far. Please read and review if you have the time. As always, enjoy :) x

The skies are blue here, a bolder blue than she can ever remember seeing back home. Crisp air carries on a warming breeze of subtle birch and silken rosemary, and lines of vineyards are scattered across the valley below in rows too numerous to count, blending together in hazy shades of sage. Beyond that: a far hilly country on the verge of an artistic greatness that would leave an indelible mark on the world for a long time to come.

With a slow exhale Kathryn leans back into her chair, fingers idly tracing the cool stem of her wineglass. She revels in the breeze that glides over the back of her neck, sifting through the newly cut strands. In the shade of the tall poplars lining the ancient villa she can almost forget the weariness that has come to cling to her like a unshakeable companion.

Dusk is settling on the horizon. A nightjar calls out. Its voice is charring, like a mechanical whir, almost as if meaning to mimic the sound of Voyager's engines.

"Captain."

There aren't many people aboard who would choose to disturb her in the early hours of the morning. A mere handful, in fact.

"Tuvok."

"Am I disturbing you?"

A quiet breeze traverses the space between them, the nightjar's song fading all too soon. She turns to blink at him, his form silhouetted in the rays of the fading sunlight. The Vulcan stands some distance away, observing her with a disconcerted interest. He tilts his head to one side as if trying to pinpoint something, an oddity, and she patiently holds his gaze, waiting for the proverbial penny to drop. Realisation flickers across his features.

"You are not asleep," he says at length.

"I'd say that was an accurate observation."

She stares at the empty wineglass, the already half-empty vintage, and wonders if she should order another bottle.

"It is past 0300hrs," Tuvok states, and she sighs heavily.

"I'm aware of the time, Tuvok."

His footsteps are light as he crosses over the sun-baked earth, his hands folded neatly behind his back as if he's about to give her a tactical update on the ship's security. But that isn't why he's here, why he's traversed five decks on foot in the middle of the night when his shift doesn't finish for another four hours.

"I believe the Doctor recommended you acquire some thirty hours of rest," Tuvok says, his dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "And yet you are here. On the Holodeck. Why?"

Janeway smiles suspiciously, gestures to the seat beside her.

"I could ask you the same question."

Tuvok raises a brow, and proceeds to sit down, his gaze drawn to the distant horizon.

"I was... troubled."

"Oh?"

"Over the past few days I have found myself becoming increasingly unsettled."

She turns to regard him with a new concern. It is not often that Tuvok discusses such things, even with her - and she is, aboard this ship, his closest confidante.

"Have you spoken to the Doctor about this?"

"I have," Tuvok nods, recognising her immediate fears, "and he assured me that I was in no way affected by the alien's presence. Nor did he detect any evidence of experimental procedures during my examination." He inhales inaudibly. "However, I confess I have had some difficulty meditating of late, and I have experienced a somewhat strange sensation."

"What kind of sensation?" Janeway asks.

"It is difficult to explain," Tuvok replies. "It is not so much a feeling as it is a logical understanding." His lips twitch with something akin to irony, but his implacable facade does not falter. "I am, as you might put it, following my instinct."

She smiles incredulously.

"A gut feeling, Tuvok?"

"Vulcans do not have gut feelings," he reminds her. "Logic dictates that instinct and intuition are merely serendipitous emotions. They are functionless." He reconsiders. "However, it seemed illogical to ignore the sensation. Thus I have come here."

Drawing the wine bottle closer Janeway pours herself another glass, watching as the rich red liquid laps lazily at the sides. She is almost relieved it is only holographic wine. There'd be little consolation in consuming the real thing.

"You haven't exactly answered my question," she says coyly.

"Nor you mine."

She begins to pour a second glass and notes how he shifts, albeit barely imperceptibly, uncomfortably in his chair.

"I feel I must remind you that I am still on duty, Captain."

"It's holographic wine, Tuvok," Janeway replies drily, avoiding his remonstrative gaze. "It can't intoxicate you."

He hums something tellingly Vulcan, and accepts the glass she pushes toward him. Vulcans do not drink wine on principal. She knows that. So to have him here, with her, beside her, offering to partake in a beverage many others of his species inherently detest - it means more than she can put into words.

Her eyes close as she breathes in the aroma, sinking into the voluptuous depths of the fabricated alcohol. The breeze has long since stilled, the skies glowing with hues of rose that ascend heaven-ward into a deep midnight blue.

"You know, when you said you'd join me for a glass of wine this wasn't quite what I'd had in mind," Janeway says eventually.

"It would be prudent to order a more... refined wine during our next visit," Tuvok answers, swilling the liquid and staring at it in deep concentration. "Something a little less robust, perhaps. Saint-Émilion if you prefer a sweet spice. Ktarian Merlot is also favourable."

An irresistible grin pulls at her lips and she leans toward him teasingly, resting her chin in her palm.

"I didn't think of you as a connoisseur, Tuvok."

She's known him for nearly two decades. It's a joy to discover something new about him after such a long time.

"About a year ago Mr Neelix gifted me a bottle of Talaxian champagne. I have been saving it for a special occasion. What that occasion was to be, however, I had not decided until now."

She smiles kindly.

"Oh, if you've been saving it for something special, Tuvok, save it a little longer, won't you?"

He raises a curious brow.

"Do you have another occasion in mind?"

Janeway shakes her head, cradling the glass between her hands.

"I only meant you shouldn't waste something you've been saving on a night out with me on the Holodeck."

He turns to regard her with an odd expression, neither betraying nor revealing his thoughts. And then he blinks languidly, and she finds herself waiting expectantly for his reply.

"I would hardly call spending my time with you a waste, Captain," Tuvok says sincerely, speaking her title as if it were her name. "Moreover, it would give me great pleasure to be able to appreciate the wine with someone whose company I enjoy."

A startling ache blooms in her chest, a warmth of gratitude, of the deepest friendship, and yet she is all too aware of the deep concern rooted in his gaze. And she knows that, sooner or later, he will gently pry the truth from her reluctant grasp. As he always does.

"Captain?"

"Yes, Tuvok?"

"Why are you here?"

Several answers spring to mind. Denial. Numerous quips. A sarcastic deflection that will no doubt only encourage his natural aptitude for uncovering the facts. He is, after all, a most thorough investigator.

"Insomnia is an old friend of mine," Janeway answers lowly, drawing a hand over her brow. "You'd think after being kept awake for so long it would be easy enough to fall asleep, but here we are."

"I am certain the Doctor could provide you with an effective remedy," Tuvok says helpfully, oblivious to her mounting irritation at the threatening thought of another hypospray. "I have heard his nightcap recipes are particularly popular with members of the crew, and I believe Ensign Wildman often uses them in her evening regime."

"Thank you, Tuvok, but-" Janeway sighs, grimaces. "I think I'm a little too far beyond the aid of steamed milk and honey."

"I take it you did not come here merely for the view." The Vulcan nods to their surroundings. "As appealing as it may be." His voice lowers, softens, takes on a tone she has often heard him use with his children. "You are also troubled."

"You could say that."

"Would it help to talk about it?" Tuvok asks and she laughs sadly.

"I'm not sure I know where to begin."

Because this is, she'll admit, only the tip of the iceberg, another knife in her back adding to the consuming guilt that has been weighing down on her for the last four years. It's what keeps her awake at night. What drives her waking thoughts. An enduring constant.

"The beginning, I find, is often the best place to start."

She throws him an amused glance.

"That would make for a very long story."

"I am in no hurry," he insists.

Night draws near. A soft golden glow engulfs the vineyards and stone farms below, the hills ablaze with the fading heat. Poplars and olive trees sway to their own silent tune, and as the remaining warmth in the earth diminishes Kathryn breathes in a passing fragrance of sea salt and wild herbs caught on the evening breeze. Tuvok sips at his wine, forever patient, and she leans back into her chair with a yielding sigh.

"Out here in the Delta Quadrant we have encountered technologies far more advanced than ours," Janeway says after a little while. "We've discovered diverse cultures and species with traditions and values equally as violent and predatorial, if not more so, as any in the Alpha quadrant." She looks him directly in the eye, attempts, and fails, to keep her voice neutral. "And, if I'm being honest, it frightens me, Tuvok. It frightens me that some day we might encounter something so powerful, so far removed from all that we know and understand, that I will be faced with the unthinkable, and my ability to protect this crew will prove insufficient." She bites the inside of her cheek, frowns at the remaining wine waiting invitingly at the bottom of her glass. "And I'm not sure I can accept that."

He considers her carefully, her words lingering as a heavy revelation, a truth spoken to the void. Her eyes lift to meet his, searching, wondering, hoping for a reassurance he isn't qualified to give. Because, as much as she would like to believe otherwise, she knows her fears to be a justifiable reality. Time and time again they have come too close to the brink, scraping through one danger after another to find themselves facing an even worse predicament than before. And yet, despite all the odds, they have survived.

She downs the rest of the glass.

"It is true that in the time we have spent in this quadrant we have faced many dangers and many enemies," Tuvok says, a voice of reason. "Yet through it all, no matter the personal cost, you have and continue to bring this crew further toward home. A lesser Captain might have given up. But not you."

She buries her face in her hand, fingers blindly finding his in the settling dusk.

"You do not need to be powerful to protect this crew, Captain," Tuvok says firmly. "You need only be yourself. To expect anything more would be illogical."


	5. White Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Star Trek Voyager or any of its characters.
> 
> A/N: Hey all, here's the final chapter! Couldn't resist writing a last short scene between Tuvok and Janeway to round off this story. Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed. It means a lot, and I have loved reading all your comments. As always, enjoy :) Until next time x

Her quarters are, much to her latent relief, relatively in tact, a strange contrast to the turmoil of her sleep-deprived thoughts. Light from the corridor spills into the dim room, lengthening their shadows over the carpet. She hesitates at the boundary, vaguely aware of Tuvok standing woodenly at her side. All sense of time has long since slipped away. Sleep does not call to her as it should, and in its place there is a warning, a klaxon, a persistent knowledge that will not allow her to rest.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain?" Tuvok asks.

She briefly considers inviting him in - if only to put his analytical mind at rest. Her vision blurs momentarily, an odd fluttering unravelling in her chest. With a tired sigh Janeway shuffles over the threshold, turning to bid him goodnight. But before she has the chance the Vulcan steps inside, apparently having readily anticipated her thoughts.

The doors swish shut.

Somewhere in the back of her mind an order is given, but it does not leave her lips. Instead she squints in the darkness, edging toward an undecided destination in an attempt to sift through the confusion. She finds the end of the sofa, fingers trailing over one of the pillows. It's not like Tuvok to enter without permission; it's not like her to let him. To be so unlike herself. Pliant. Reticent. She huffs out a peculiar laugh. Maybe, she muses absently, this is all simply one frenzied dream from which she will eventually wake, with no memory of the past four days to distress her. Or perhaps her worst fears are coming true after all.

Perhaps she really is going insane.

Tuvok utters something, and the dimness recedes a little. Casting her gaze over her quarters Janeway finds a little comfort in the familiar: a stain on the rim of her coffee mug sitting on the table, her favourite throw draped haphazardly on the back of a chair. The thrice-read paperback copy of Homer's Odyssey remains open on page 233 on her desk. Everything is exactly as she had left it. As it should be. And yet not.

He's standing in the middle of her cabin, she realises, waiting for a response to his former question. She turns to face him. He raises a brow. Her heartbeat accelerates.

Oh, hell. Maybe she is losing it.

"No, thank you, Tuvok," Janeway says finally, wringing her hands together. "I fear I've already taken up far too much of your time."

"On the contrary, Captain," he replies. "My time is at your disposal."

She wipes a hand over her brow, denies yet another feeble yawn.

"My duty shift finished over an hour ago," the Vulcan elaborates.

The chronometer flicks to 0900. She sinks into the sofa, the revelation of the time crushing down on her shoulders.

"Oh."

Fatigue follows, swift, but not entirely unexpected.

"I took the liberty of undertaking an extra bridge shift," Tuvok explains, "at Commander Chakotay's discretion."

"You didn't have to do that," Janeway murmurs.

Picking up the discarded throw the Vulcan methodically begins to unfold it. She blinks up at him as he approaches, half-ready to protest, to dismiss him and send him back to his position on the Bridge - until she remembers that he isn't required to be there. He's here of his own accord, picking up pieces that refuse, no matter how hard she tries, to fit back together. And then he mindfully drapes the throw over her knees, and she suddenly feels incredibly small.

"Tuvok?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

He sits down beside her, palms pressed together. Absently he observes the stars moving across the windows, allowing for a moment of quiet solitude. It's strange, she thinks through the haze, how he manages to be so near at hand and yet so far away. Always aloof; always composed. A mystery unto all but himself.

"I have had trouble meditating of late."

Janeway frowns, unsure whether to push him further on the subject.

"Yes." A consideration. "I know."

"I thought perhaps..." Tuvok hesitates. "Perhaps, if you are willing, we could meditate together?"

She's been blind, Janeway realises belatedly. Selfish. So caught up in her recent crazed state of mind that she has neglected his own need for companionship. Vulcan though he may be he is not, and never has been, completely devoid of emotion - though no doubt he would contest otherwise. But she knows better. She knows _him_. And she knows that in asking her to meditate he is not only offering her a piece of himself, but that he is asking, in his uniformly logical way, for comfort.

"I'd like that."

Slowly, graciously, Tuvok nods, turning to face her with a concentrated expression. He closes his eyes, implying she should do the same, and begins to speak.

"Focus on the white light that is your breath. Feel its flow as it passes into the space around you. Its rhythm. Its calm."

He reaches over the tips of her fingers, passing over her palm. His skin is warm, his tone carefully measured, trained, reverberating from within. She trusts him implicitly, and yet she can't help resisting the lulling pull of his voice.

"Let all external thought slip away."

She draws in a breath, watches him closely. For a moment he appears to struggle, fighting with an invisible force he alone must face, and then gradually his eyes open, pupils widening in the dim light. His mouth twists in amused disapproval.

"Close your eyes," Tuvok instructs, and she reluctantly lets them drift shut.

It's dark here. An indiscernible space brimming with raging noise. A black static that twists and flails. Voices, too many to count, call out in frightening discord. The crew. Her family. Souls they have lost along the way. Her grip tightens on his arm, seeking his voice amidst the faceless commotion.

"Do not fear your negative thoughts," Tuvok instructs. His breathing deepens, a perfect balance of calm logic and patience. "Step out from the darkness. Reach instead toward the light. Rise above the incoherent."

Colour. Light. A bewildering valley of quiet. Here there is an understanding, something deep and unspoken, and she realises that she can no longer hear him. The cushions deepen. The warning klaxon fades. Somewhere above in the lidless skies sleep calls with open arms, and she floats toward it hesitantly. She's vaguely aware of the Vulcan entering his own meditative state, his demeanour relaxing, treading at last into familiar territory. A hum of contentment. He rises, higher and higher into cognitive utopia, and merges with the stars.

"Now," Tuvok says quietly, "turn your focus to the river that flows within you."

Two fingers press gently to her radial artery, and she feels the pulse of his heartbeat joining her own. It does not wage war. It does not overwhelm. It is simply a passageway, a guide to a steadier cadence. Through sleepy, hooded eyes she watches as the smallest of smiles ghosts over the Vulcan's features, and she is swept away by the rhythm of the river.


End file.
